The Darksworn Knight
by TemplarSword
Summary: The sequel to The Gurubashi Druid, following Vyndakian Sunshatter in his struggles to retain his own humanity.
1. Origins of Death

"_Between life and death,_

_In other worlds,_

_For heroes and lost souls_

_By a battlefield of Darkness_

_The purpose of one_

_In rivalry of destiny, our destiny,_

_Endowed with greatness,_

_Seeking perfection of our soul_

_Un-scared and not created to stronger it,_

_True and faithful to a unique warrior spirit_

_I am I,_

_Never on big knees begging for help or pity,_

_Standing stout and appearing pressed,_

_Penetrate the glorified eyes of a creator to discover, _

_I am he, he is I,_

_Sent forth to rise above shame and mediocrity,_

_To give not one fuck for the idea, of original sin,_

_Tranquilize the warrior reckoning within my mind,_

_To stand and deliver a destiny unlike any other,_

_To live with the heart of a warrior that will one day speak,_

_Through the tombstone a top my grave_

_I will do in my life, what will live_

_Forever" _–The Warrior Code (Take from the song by _Winds of Plague_)

Figures danced around the roaring fire, the beat of drums and the chanting of voices flooding the small valley. The Bloodraptor Clan celebrated in the traditional matter, beside a bonfire, the lapping flames high enough to burn away at the sky. Trolls, Tauren, Orcs, Elves and Goblins all laughed and drank, telling stories and goofing around.

Vyndakian was laughing as the Troll named Zalaman told a story of how he had stolen some fruit as a child, picking up one of the Orc youngbloods in his hands, handling the child like a delicate gourd. In the Death Knight's arms was a stranger to the Clan, but someone he had held close for years.

Trayste Ashward laughed, her voice like the peal of bells. He had met her when he had first joined his Paladin order, Arcanus Illuminadum, as a child. She had wandered down from her room in the Temple, and the two stared at each other in the gardens for what seemed like hours.

As they grew closer, her father, the Archpaladin, had done everything in his power to keep them apart. Even with this the two had grown closer, the bond continuing to grow after Vyndakian had been married. Everything had been great until his family had been murdered.

A clap on the shoulder roused the Elf from his thoughts, as Jarn'dor Gurubashi sat next to him. The Druid grinned at his friend as Zalaman tossed the child up, catching him in his arms. The small group laughed at the bemused look on the young Orc's face, as his mother picked him out of the Troll's arms, scolding him.

They all roared with laughter at this, Jarn'dor wiping a tear from his eye. Trayste cuddle into Vyndakian's chest, trying to muffle her laughter. Even Zalaman chuckled as the mother took her child away, the young Orc muttering under his breath.

"Come mon," said Jarn'dor to Vyndakian, "Ya must have a story ta tell us. Afta all, ya been livin' da longest." The Death Knight closed his eyes. His memories had been broken after joining the Lich King, forgetting most of his earlier life. Since he had joined the Clan, snippets of them had been coming back. Already he had remembered how to play an instrument called a guitar, and Trayste… He had remembered everything about her.

The Elf stood up, tousling his mate's hair. He walked over to Zalaman, the Troll shuffling away so that Vyndakian could sit at the head of the group. With a great sigh, he began to talk.

"My friends, some of you know me, and some of you do not. But tonight, I will tell you all a story. This is not a pleasant tale, as it is of revenge, and murder. It is also a tale of how one man can sell everything for one love. Sit, my brothers and sisters, and I shall tell you of how my Order, Arcanus Illuminadum, was destroyed.

"I was once a Paladin, with a wife and child. My life was not perfect, and my family hated me, but I was in love. I had always been in love. But this love was forbidden by my superior, the Archpaladin Ashward. For it was his daughter, a person I had seen grow up as I had.

"One day, I returned from a mission, which had failed horribly. All of my Brothers had died, and I had been the only to return. The Archpaladin had soothed me, told me all was well. And so I returned home, to watch as it burned down in flames.

"I caught the mauraders, and I saw that they had been of my Order… My Brothers and Sisters had turned against me. And so, I returned to the Temple. The Archpaladin spoke down to me, as if I were a child. He expelled me, stripped me of my armor, my weapons, and my rank. I became lost in absolute anger and hate, wandering.

"I travelled far, far north, and the first time I came to my senses was in a snowstorm. A voice spoke to me, told me I could have the power to sate my need for revenge, for one thing. I would need to give up my eternal soul, and never again walk the path of the light.

"To the surprise of the Order, I returned. But I did not return as a Paladin. I returned as a killer. That night, Acanus Illuminadum, was destroyed…"

* * *

><p><em>16 Years Ago<em>

Vyndakian walked forward, his sight blinded by rage. Everything in these Eversong Woods withered at his touch. He was Death itself, and he would enter the Seed of Lies, and rip out its maker.

The Elf was clad in black Saronite armor, completely encased by the foreign metal. An aura of cold and death preceded him, killing the ground before him. Everything touched by his hand became blighted, withering and dying. Across his back, was slung a mighty weapon of destruction, its glowing runes powered by the souls it had feasted on.

Birds and animals fled before him, as they rightly should. Tonight, every crime committed against him would be repaid, compounded by blood. Soon, he moved from the trees, and approached the Temple.

It was a mighty structure, a Church centered within it. Connected to the Church, were the barracks, organized as rectangle with a small space for a garden in the center. On the opposite side of the compound, were the forge and the eating place, a small building with a kitchen at the other end. The Courtyard which separated the buildings was paved with stones, towering statues of the Archpaladin's dominating the views. All of this was surrounded by a mighty stone wall, the mighty gate at the front being the only method of entry into the Temple.

And the only escape.

Two Paladins stood in front of the gates to the Temple, their golden armor reflecting the pale light of a handful of torches. All across the stone wall were mantled torches, the beacons giving only a small form of light in the moonless night.

The Death Knight pushed out from the bushes, walking on open ground. It was not long before the Paladins spied him, their hands gripping the pommel of their blades. Vyndakian had no words for them, commanding the blight he now controlled to sweep forward.

His cold aura extinguished the torches, as his plague extinguished their lives, the disease eating away at the Elves' flesh. The Death Knight places his hand on the mighty stone door, taking the time to examine the carvings upon it. They were smooth, and intricate, weaving around each other like tree roots.

The Elf chuckled, as the lines formed a shield, to signify the protection the door gave this holy place. No shield would save these betrayers from his wrath.

Vyndakian placed a palm flat against the door, channelling his power. With a simple push, the mighty door flew off its hinges, the ancient stone tumbling and rolling across the Temple's courtyard. It crushed women, children, and Knights alike, as the came to rest against the opposite side of the Courtyard.

He drew his Runeblade, and all hell broke loose.

Before a cry could reach the nearest man's throat, his head was severed from his body by the Death Knight's weapon, propelled by a mighty fount of blood. Paladins from around the courtyard ripped out their weapons, and charged Vyndakian as one.

But none could stand before him. He swept his powerful blade across their disorganized ranks, flaying open the group. From somewhere upon the battlements, a horn was sounded. Soon, the Courtyard was filled with Paladins, all clamouring over their fallen comrades to reach Vyndakian.

The man was a maelstrom of death, many of his foes dropping from his touch, others feeling the metallic taste of his blade. He grinned as the Paladin's fell away, their armor shredded by his unholy strength.

More of the Holy Warriors pushed into the courtyard, trying to land even one blow upon the Death Knight. He soon grew tired of these games, and began to leech some of his power into the fallen corpses. Within a matter of moments, cries of terror flew up from the Paladins as their fallen brethren began to attack them, the Ghouls feasting upon the flesh of the living.

Vyndakian pushed through the crowd. They would not escape his wrath yet, but he had other plans to attend to first. His ears twitched as he heard cries from the kitchen. He turned and progressed towards the building, ripping the door off its hinges.

The women and elderly of the Temple, those that would not fight, were holed up in here. Of course, as a bringer of death, Vyndakian did not discriminate, and they were all slain. From further in the building he heard a sob.

The Death Knight progressed to the cooking area, and pulled open the door. Here, were the children. The youngest were held in the arms of the older children, but all were confused and frightened. At seeing the familiar form of Vyndakian, one child called out, and they all cheered.

"Lord Vyndakian," said one, pulling at his cloak, "What is going on? What do we do now?"

The Elf looked over them all, his eyes as cold as ice. Of course, he didn't discriminate. Even with children.

Vyndakian wiped his blade on one of the fresh corpses, leaving the kitchen. Two Paladins stood outside, slaying the last of the Undead.

"Paladins," he roared, and the two turned to face him, "Join me, or join your brethren in death!" The two looked at each other, the men having something deep in their eyes. Vyndakian knew what it was, and was disgusted to see the two act in such a way.

The Elves took each other's hand, and went down on one knee, silently pledging themselves to their new Lord. The Death Knight walked toward the two of them, looking between them. In one swift motion, he beheaded one, dousing the corpse's lover with its blood.

"Torch the bodies," Vyndakian ordered the shocked Elf, as he turned to enter the church. He arrived at the wooden doors of the holy building, even as the ground died underneath his feet. The Death Knight kicked the doors to the church open, roaring his anger.

The chapel had a high roof, the topmost rafters disappearing into darkness. The torches mounted around the room shed bright lights, illuminating the crystal windows. In each window, were pictures depicting scenes from the holy books. Down the center of the church, was an ornately woven rug, stained red and blue for the colors of war and peace. Pews filled the two halves of the church, as the carpet wound up to the altar.

Up a small ramp, was a plain, wooden altar, laden with books and pages. Writing upon those pages, quill in hand, was the Archpaladin.

Zerelin Ashward was an aging man, his scarlet hair slowly turning to a pristine silver. His face and eyes held the knowledge and wisdom of the ages, and his golden embroidered robes showed all his position of authority. At his right, were his shield and sword, the ancient weapon still sheathed in its scabbard.

"Ashward," roared Vyndakian, ripping off his helm. The Elder Elf looked up at the shout of his name, snapping the quill in his hands. The gentle face quickly tuned to one of anger.

"You dare return," question the Archpaladin, "You may not walk upon this holy ground, Vyndakian." The Death Knight walked the seemingly long distance between the pews, his face contorted in rage.

"Tonight," he hissed, "I get my revenge, Old Man." Zerelin scoffed, looking at Vyndakian from over his books.

"Such insolence," seethed the Elf, "To think you were to be my successor." Vyndakian bared his teeth, the points not quite the fangs that would someday label him as Darksworn.

"I wouldn't fill the shoes of a liar and a traitor," retorted Vyndakian, "To think I once called you father." The Archpaladin spit at the Death Knight's feet as he ascended the ramp.

"And what would you do to the one whom was your sister;" Zerelin shot back, "Your scandal nearly ruined all my plans." Vyndakian snarled ferally.

"Scandal," roared the Elf, "You would deny your daughter, your own flesh and blood, what she wants?" The Archpaladin nodded slowly, a grin on his face.

"She was supposed to marry," replied Ashward, "and raise our family's name in the City." Vyndakian saw red, and clenched his fist so hard he thought his Runeblade would surely snap in half.

"You would sell her away," questioned the Death Knight, "To someone she could never love?" The Archpaladin laughed as his response, nodding slightly.

"And what of me," seethed Vyndakian, "The boy you took in off your doorstep." Zerelin leaned on the wooden altar.

"You were to be my successor," he mused, "But you defied me at every turn, and the locket…" The Archpaladin slammed his fist on the wooden table, the structure creaking under the force. "That locket you gave my daughter was the last straw. Because of your scandal, no man would take her, and she had to be sent away."

Vyndakian remembered the locket, gold cast into the shape of a heart. On the inside he had scribed "_To Trayste Ashward, the Sun in my Eternal Night, and the most beautiful flower in the garden of life." _Suddenly, Ashward's words hit him, and the Death Knight snarled.

"You lie!" The Archpaladin laughed cruelly, his voice echoing off the walls.

"Oh no," he replied, "I had her sent to the Tower, to become a Priestess." Vyndakian's thoughts were controlled by his rage. Everything that spouted out of Ashward's words had to be lies. Behind them, the blight the Death Knight had released slowly crawled into the chapel, tainting the ground. Zerelin's eyes widened, and he looked to the other Elf.

"What have you become," he hissed, picking up his shield, and ripping his sword from his scabbard.

"I have become Death," whispered Vyndakian, "My heart, is now encased in ice, and my actions are driven by the blood you have spilt. I am your judge, jury, and executioner, Father." He spit the last word, the title like venom in his mouth. "Tonight, I will show you, the greatest nightmare!"

Zerelin called upon his power, light flooding the chapel, surrounding and protecting him. But as quickly as it had come, the Light vanished, leaving the man hopelessly alone.

"No," said the shocked Archpaladin, even as the Darkness grew around Vyndakian. The Death Knight reached out, the darkness taking the form of mighty hands. They gripped the altar and threw it aside like a child's play thing, the wooden altar crashing into a row of pews.

"The Light has forsaken you," spoke Vyndakian, even as Ashward suddenly leapt at him. He parried the blow and sent the Archpaladin careening down the stairs. Zerelin spun, baring his teeth.

"I've still won," hissed the Elf, "I won the day I killed your family." Vyndakian roared and pointed his Runeblade at the man he once called father, and unleashed a torrent of souls.

Zerelin nearly raised his shield in time, but the blast threw him backwards. Vyndakian reached out with his hands of darkness to grab the Elf, slamming him into a nearby wall and the throwing him at his feet.

"And I won," continued Zerelin, "The day she was locked away." Vyndakian drove the heel of his boot into the Archpaladin's back, grinning at the sound of a satisfying crunch.

Ashward groaned in pain as he felt his shattered ribcage. The blighted ground stopped encroaching just at the edge of the altar, as the Death Knight kicked the other Elf onto his back. He planted his foot on Zerelin's head, forcing it down to an inch above the ground.

"Kiss it," seethed the Elf, grinning at the grim satisfaction of watching his former master touch the thing that reviled him. The souls of every Paladin, every woman and child, filled the pews in the church, watching the display with the quiet nature of the dead.

Vyndakian hauled the Elder to his feet, making him look at every dead person, everyone he had killed tonight.

"You and I are the last of Arcanus Illuminadum," spoke the Death Knight, "Now, tell the truth for once. Tell those that died for you, and because of you, how you really feel."

The Archpaladin looked at all of them, and Vyndakian grinned as a mixture of feelings passed over the Elf's face.

"I… I used all of you as pawns," whispered Zerelin, "I used you all as tools, to further my own wants, my desires." The crowd did not react, even as the Archpaladin went on and on. Eventually, the Death Knight grew tired of this, and threw him back to his knees.

"Now pray," ordered the Elf, "Pray that the Light may forgive you of your sins." Zerelin clasped his hands, tears streaming down his eyes. Even as he mumbled his wrongs to his deity, Vyndakian kneeled next to him, Runeblade in hand.

"Pray to your Light," whispered the Death Knight, driving his blade into the Archpaladin's back, "For your soul is mine for the rest of eternity." Zerelin coughed blood, falling to the floor. Vyndakian pushed the Runeblade deep into the Elf, driving it through the floor until it was buried to the hilt.

"You see, father," mused the killer, "I have still won. Already, your Paladins, the ones you chose, are joining me in the power of the damned." He laughed, as the Archpaladin's soul seem to separate itself from his body, the ethereal substance slowly being enjoyed by the Runeblade.

"And I have won penultimately," lied Vyndakian, "For I have deflowered your child… She will always be mine." With this final lie told, the old man stared at him, with endless hatred and loathing in his eyes. With that, the Archpaladin died, Vyndakian's cruel lie ringing over and over in his ears.

The Death Knight stood as the souls vanished, being devoured by his Runeblade. Vyndakian walked out of the church, into the courtyard.

"Trayste," he yelled, calling to her, "It's over! We've won!" He smiled, perking his ears for her return call. As time passed, his smile began to fade.

"Trayste," he called, running towards the barracks. He took up the flight of stairs, running through the memories of all he had killed. He hadn't payed attention to their faces… What if he had-?

Vyndakian threw open the door to her room, looking inside. On one side of the small room, was a bed built for one, and on the other, was a simple desk made from a strong type of wood only found in the forest.

All of Trayste's pictures and drawings had been taken down, except one. Above her bed, was a picture of the two of them less than a few months ago. The two were laughing and giggling under the big tree in the Garden, Trayste blushing all the way up to her ear tips as she sat in Vyndakian's lap.

The glass covering the picture had been shattered, jagged pieces hanging from the wooden frame. The Death Knight turned and raced outside to the Garden, trying to remember all the faces of his victims that night. He nearly ran into the big tree, and looked down.

In the roots of the tree, was a small carving in Trayste's bold handwriting. It was a heart, and inside was "Vyn + Tray." But carved over it, was an unfamiliar script, spelling out the words "Scandal," and "Liars." Vyndakian pounded his fist into the root, over and over, until the words and the carving had been beaten out.

He kept calling out her name, his shouts ringing off the walls of the Barracks. Slowly, his rage, and his sadness grew, his aura condensing around him.

"I couldn't have," he mumbled, trying to stop himself from crying, "I wouldn't have… No…. No….NOOOOO!" His power exploded forth in a mighty shockwave, levelling the Temple. Chunks of the ancient monolith flew across the landscape, crushing trees and animals in their destruction. The blighted land consumed the once holy ground, tainting everything it touched.

The Death Knight wept openly by the ruins of what had once been a three-thousand year old tree. She was gone, gone to a place he could never hope to reach. The Paladin that was his new servant trudged over the ruined ground, to try and console Vyndakian.

Before he could say a word, the Elf punched his servant in the throat, crushing his windpipe. As the Paladin struggled for breath, Vyndakian grabbed his head and twisted, snapping the weak little connection between his brain and his body.

The Death Knight walked back to the chapel, ripping the Runeblade from his father's corpse. Vyndakian looked at one of the crystal windows, shattered from his power. What had once been the "Saviour" preached about in the holy book, was now twisted and destroyed, taking the form of a scythe.

Yes, he would return to the north, and he would take up that scythe. He would use it until the day he died.

Until the day he could be reunited with his love.

* * *

><p>Vyndakian slowly opened his eyes, to discover that the entire Clan had fallen silent, listening to his tale. He stood at the head of the fire, looking at each of his brothers and sisters in turn.<p>

"I returned to Northrend," he continued, "to serve out the sentence of my soul. What had supposed to be an eternity, turned into sixteen years. And one day, I did come home…"

Even the most bloodthirsty of the Bloodraptors did not clap as Vyndakian sat down next to Trayste, and the party awkwardly continued. She looked at him with shock, but slowly returned to her earlier position, cuddling into his chest.

"Did you really do all of that," she asked, her eyes wide. The Darksworn nodded, kissing her forehead.

"It still haunts me to this day."

* * *

><p>Wiigarg walked down the path of Utgarde Keep, finally returning to his keep. The elderly Orc had been travelling for the past month, trying to become stronger than his former master, Golion Ragereaver. He had devoured powerful demonic energies, and had nearly lost his humanity.<p>

The Warlock shivered in the slight cold, pulling his cloak around him. Jarn'dor Gurubashi, a Troll Druid, had saved him from this corruption, and had led him back to being loyal to the Bloodraptor. Now, as ruler of Golion's armies, he would use them to aid the Clan in their conquests, and to keep them safe.

He threw open the doors to his chambers, looking inside. The high-ceilinged room did not keep the heat in, and frost constantly clung to the pillars, and even to the torches, no matter how brightly they burned.

At the opposite side of the room, a figure cloaked in black sat upon the Orc's throne. His breathing was ragged, and worn, and no part could visibly be seen of the man's body.

"Who are you," roared Wiigarg, "What are you doing on my throne." The man chuckled as figures crept out of the shadows. One was the Vrykul Warlord, Garthun, the Twilight Drake, Helios, the Netherwing Dragon, Archaon, and the mysterious visitor who spoke in clacks and chirps.

"That is no way to welcome me home, Wiigarg," spoke the man as he rose, he pushing off from the throne. The figure walked down towards the Orc, as the Warlock backpedalled.

"It's impossible," whispered Wiigarg, "You plunged into the river… I saw it!" Golion laughed, as his talons tore away his mask. The Orc screamed in terror at the blackened bone underneath, the sockets now twin pits of darkness.

"Not even death can stop me," replied the Undead as he drove his claws into Wiigarg's throat, piercing his veins and his windpipe. The Dragon easily lifted the Orc high into the air.

"I know what you've been doing," continued Golion, "Scheming to take what is mine. And in the end, you betrayed me. You wanted to use my power for the Clan." The Orc tried to reply, but his master's grip choked the words in his throat.

"You wanted to use my life, to further yours," mused the Magmawyrm. He pulled Wiigarg so they were face to face.

"You know something," spoke Golion, grinning, "You never know what life really is, until it runs out in a big red gush over your lips."

The Undead suddenly dropped Wiigarg, as blood poured forth from his mouth, flooding his airway. The Orc thrashed and twitched for a while, until he was finally still. Golion assumed his throne, as two of his servants entered.

"Skin the body," ordered the Undead, "And nail the torso above my door. Place each of his limbs at the corners of my keep, to let everyone know what I do to traitors… As for the head, leave the skin on, and mail it… Mail it to Alk'wan."

The servants bowed and immediately dragged out the corpse, hurrying so they did not incur their master's wrath. The Visitor clacked in amusement as Garthun chuckled.

"Please," said Golion nodding to the cloaked figure, "Remove your cloak and show our comrades who our greatest ally is." With a nod, the mighty being undid his cloak, throwing it aside.

The being was built much like a gigantic man, covered in a thick, insectoid carapace. A mighty sword was strapped across his back, as he kneeled in front of the Undead.

"King Vek'Nilash of Ahn'Qiraj," reported the might being, as the Twilight Drake snorted in surprise. The Vrykul immeadietly backed away, as the Netherwing Dragon chuckled. Golion grinned at all of their reactions.

"Then is your brother prepared to accept my eggs," asked the Magmawyrm. The Qiraji nodded, remaining quiet. Golion looked at the Netherwing Dragon.

"Is the Waygate in Sholazar prepared to transport the clutch?" The beast dipped its head, nodding.

"Helios," he roared, and the Twilight Drake started, "How long until your underlings can age my eggs to mature Dragons?"

The Drake shifted uncomfortably, a little nervous. "About…two months milord." Golion sighed, looking at the Vrykul.

"Garthun, you and your Vrykul will remain here." The man nodded. "Vek'Nilash, you and Helios will take my eggs to Ahn'Qiraj and watch them until they are ripe to age." The two nodded as Golion grinned.

"In two months, the Wyrmrest Accord will fall, and we shall rule Azeroth for eternity." The leaders laughed and roared, the two Dragon's clapping eachother on the back.

"Milord," spoke Garthun, "What of the interlopers, the Bloodraptor Clan?" Golion waved his hand as the figure of a Troll suddenly appeared in the center of the throne room. The pirate wore a puffy shirt, a grin on his face.

"I work my ways on him," mused Obsidion, "And one by one, the Clan shall fall."


	2. Shit Hits The Gnomish Air Moving Device

Jarn'dor Gurubashi traversed the mountains of the Arathi Highlands with a little difficulty, the rocky bluffs jutting out with awkward and confusing angles, unlike the jungle trees of his homeland. The Troll had broken out into a sweat a few hours ago, the physical exertion far more tasking on his body than he had thought was possible.

It had been nearly two months since Vyndakian Sunshatter, Alk'wan Bloodraptor, and he had confronted the mastermind Golion Ragereaver, and had defeated him upon the Blackrock Spire. They had swept aside his Orcish and Dark Iron armies, and had barely survived with their lives.

Since that night, he had been plagued by horrible visions, of his own death, and of the death of everything at the hands of Golion's true form, the Magmawyrm Obsidion Terrorwing. Gigantic, black insects had swarmed the landscape, as ethereal Dragons pierced through the sky, blackening the earth with their flames.

These visions had slowly destroyed his sleep, and the peace of his quiet household. Jaz'renthi had slowly recovered from her imprisonment within Blackrock Spire, but she had quickly become worried about Jarn'dor and his dreams.

Now, the Druid was climbing this mountain, in hopes of tapping into the supposed natural spring at its peak, to draw upon its soothing powers to cleanse himself.

With a mighty heave, Jarn'dor pulled himself to the precipice of the mountain. There was no spring, no nature, just a flat, grey surface. The Druid groaned, sitting down after his futile climb.

After the battle with Golion, everyone had gone there separate ways, Vyndakian leaving to try and regain his lost memories, and Alk'wan to lead the Clan. Jarn'dor had mainly stayed with Jaz'renthi, trying to make up for the time he had missed with her, staying inside the Emerald Dream.

Vyndakian had reunited with a childhood love, and had quickly filled the void in his heart that the Elf Kisha'rowyn had left him. For this, Jarn'dor was glad, that his friend wasn't left to mope forever.

Alk'wan had quickly united what remained of the Clan, and everything was slowly begin to function normally again. The wreck that Zi'bal had left with his death had been repaired, and turned into a functional fighting force. Slowly, the Clan had become a noticeable force within the Horde, multiple members even sitting in on meetings with the Warchief.

Jarn'dor smiled with pride, knowing that his small family had grown so well. Lately, there had been unrest within their ranks though, people had vanished, or had gone mad. No one had seen Durzarn, the Troll Pirate, in at least a week.

A figure appeared out of the shadowy gloom, down the side of the mountain. A fog settled in, blocking the advancing shape from the Druid's view. Jarn'dor reached for a short blade at his belt. It was one of the swords he had used to trap Golion in chains at their battle at Blackrock, and he had kept it as a good luck charm.

He now drew it as the figure slowly popped up from the edge of the mountain-flat, standing upright. Durzarn shifted out from the fog, his baggy shirt and pants hanging from his weather-beaten, limp form. The Pirate seemed to be a little ill, his skin a horrid pallor of what it once was. There was something in his eyes, something that unnerved Jarn'dor.

"Durzarn," spoke the Druid, as the Pirate advanced on him, "Is sometin' wrong, bruddah?" The other Troll grinned as he drew his blade, and Jarn'dor's worst fears sparked in his mind, the existence of his greatest terror.

"Durzarn isn't here right now," whispered the voice of Golion, as Durzarn grinned, "But I'll be happy to deal with you." The possessed Troll suddenly swung his blade, and the shocked Druid was struck across his face, unable to raise his weapon in time. He stumbled, and the other Troll advanced, scoring as many blows as possible.

"Foolish Druid," cackled Golion's voice, as Durzarn scored another blow across Jarn'dor's back, "You thought the end was passed, when your doom is just beginning." The Druid collapsed upon the ground, his vision fading. He tried to crawl away, but he knew that he was bleeding; even the murderous puppet was slipping in his pooling blood.

Jarn'dor reached out to be saved, his hands groping thin air. But before him, two sets of hands reached out, groping for his own. His eyes wavered up, to meet the eyes of his parents. Both were whole, unharmed, and smiling.

The Druid laughed, even through his unimaginable pain, as he rejoiced in the presence of his parents. Even as the world slipped away, as the maddened cackles of Golion assaulted his ears, Jarn'dor reached out, to take his parents' hands.

* * *

><p>Kisha'rowyn Delsoran walked across the quiet grass of the Eversong Woods, book in hand. For the longest time, the Blood Elf had thrown herself into her work; studying demonic magic, and searching for relics she could use to increase her own power. Of course, her mind occasionally wandered to more personal things. Or people, especially Vyndakian, and the time they had spent, every night i-<p>

She shook her head forcefully, clearing it. No, she wouldn't think about him, not ever again. She would throw herself into her work even more if she had to; there were just too many regrets now. Kisha'rowyn sat down on a rock, and gazed at a nearby river, the babbling brook flowing like a pane of liquid glass.

Her red hair cascaded down her delicate face, framing her high cheeks elegantly. The Warlock smiled at her reflection, and it quickly turned into a grimace. She spotted two perfect, dagger-like teeth; the only things that marked her as a Darksworn.

Vyndakian made her one, to save her life from a demonic curse. And she loved it. She was faster, stronger; she was a hunter, culling the weak from the strong. The Warlock had the choice of who would die and who would live, the actions and thoughts were compelling.

"Staring a little too hard into the river, eh Kisha'rowyn," mused a voice behind her, chuckling. The Elf looked into the water, at the reflection beside her. The speaker was a tall man, dressed in flowing black robes, and with his hood pulled up, covering his face. A hand reached out to pat her shoulder, the scorched-black bones reaching out gingerly.

"Golion," she whispered, half in shock. The Elf was not unfamiliar with what had occurred at Blackrock Spire, and who had been leading the armies inside. How the Dragon had planned to set his Magmawrym's upon the land.

"You look so shocked," he hissed in her ear, "When you know I cannot be killed." As she turned, he vanished into the shadows, gone, but still present.

"Why are you here," asked the Warlock, more than a little nervous. His laughter rang throughout the trees, a sound that caused her to shudder in terror.

"To see an aching heart," he replied, his voice cool, "Tell me, how is Vyndakian and his little lover?" Kisha'rowyn felt a heaviness in her chest, at his name. Memories danced before her eyes of her and the Death Knight, but soon she was replaced by his woman, Trayste Ashward. She clenched her fists in anger, seething at the thought of him with another woman.

"Why should I know or care," she shot back, trying to remain cool and composed, "He means nothing to me." Golion laughed once more, the chilling sound causing her skin to crawl.

"Such a shame," he sighed, as a package appeared before her. It was one that Vyndakian had tossed at her feet when they had fought and broken up. She had given it to Alk'wan, the fear of what had laid inside it burying itself into her.

"Open it," whispered the Dragon, as Kisha'rowyn reached for the package. She was curious, and tantalized. The Elf burned to know what was inside the box, what Vyndakian had thrown at her feet. But then a fear gripped hold of her; what if it was some sort of poison that would kill her when she opened it?

The Warlock brought her foot down, crushing the package under her booted feet. She ground it into the dirt, just for spite. Golion appeared behind her, as his arm went around her waist, and his clenched hand held just in front of her face. It slowly opened, to reveal a beautiful engagement ring.

"Such a shame," he mused, "That you broke his frozen heart before he could propose." Kisha'rowyn was more than a little surprised that Vyndakian was going to propose to her. Suddenly, she was filled with anger; anger at Golion, at Vyndakian, and especially at Trayste.

Soon, her anger burnt out, and a few tears began to stream down her eyes. The Warlock leaned back against Golion, surprised at how warm he was. Despite her want to do otherwise, she found a little solace.

"I can make the pain go away," he whispered, and Kisha'rowyn's ears perked slightly.

"How," she asked breathily, as the ring in Golion's hand melted, turning into a golden Azeroth, the diamonds from the ring making up the Maelstrom.

"I can give you the world," he replied, as the golden orb changed into a Dragon, "I can make you the Broodmother of the last Dragons on Azeroth." Kisha'rowyn couldn't help but smile. With that kind of power, she could easily do whatever she wanted. The Elf looked up at Golion, as his form changed, into that of Vyndakian. But she gasped at the changes.

His skin was the gray of ash, the parlour of death. And while his face was as beautiful as Vyndakian's, his eyes were fiery orbs of absolute evil. Spiderwebs of molten fire danced over his skin, brining a terrifying light to his face. The golden slag in his hand slowly reshaped, turning as black as Golion's soul. In moments, the ring had reformed, the gold now pitch black, and the diamonds now a blood red.

The Dragon slid it over Kisha'rowyn's fingers, and brought them up to his lips. She could feel herself blushing, as a cruel smile played across her lips. A cold sort of love filled her breast, and she knew that everything was perfect.

"With gifts like that," responded the Elf, "How could a girl resist?"

* * *

><p>Alk'wan sat inside his tent, running a sharpening stone over his axe-blade. The Troll had finally had time to relax, and then realized his weapons were in serious disrepair. So, the Warrior had spent the last few hours cleaning his somewhat extensive arsenal.<p>

He had been busy ever since the raid on Blackrock Mountain, trying to keep the Clan together. Once Golion had been uprooted, he had surprisingly caused a lot of discourse and damage to the clan. The Dragon seemed to have had a lot of contacts and servants within their ranks, and Alk'wan had spent the last month and a half weeding them out.

The Troll stepped outside his tent, to absorb the cool night air. While he would normally spend his time at the Barrens, his travels had brought him to Mulgore, the plains-like home of the peaceful Tauren.

He wiggled his toes in the soft grass, as the moon reached its apex overhead. While normally lost in shadow, tonight the moon was full, shedding its light upon all of Azeroth.

A sudden burst of magical power drew his gaze downwards, as a package appeared next to his feet. Alk'wan couldn't help but smile, as he had asked his brother to send any mail for him to him magically. In the back of his mind, he wondered how Zimbawa was doing.

He opened the package, and the proceeded to gag from the stench of decay. Alk'wan swallowed some bile, before reaching into the box. His hands slowly closed around what felt like hair. As he lifted the object, the disembodied head of Wiigarg came into view, maggots slowly crawling out from his mouth.

First Dragons, then heads, what the hell was next?

* * *

><p>Vyndakian pulled Trayste into his arms, smiling as she giggled. The two were standing on a bridge, just above a flowing river. They were surrounded by beautiful trees, their leaves yellowing in the autumn weather. Just a few moments ago, the two had enjoyed the sunset, being closer than two should be in public.<p>

The Death Knight pulled a ring out from under his tunic, sliding it onto Trayste's finger. She could only smile, and plant a kiss on his lips.

"Yes," she whispered, as he pulled her up into his arms. Everything that he had pictured growing up, it was all about to happen. His mouth met hers in a passionate kiss, as his mind seemed to touch hers. Everything was beginning to blur together, as they began to get very close. Very VERY close.

"Father!" Vyndakian was suddenly roused from their private moment, shaking his head. Trayste continued to kiss air for a moment, soon realizing that it had ended, albeit a little sheepishly.

"Father," cried out Kaoru, pushing through the trees, tears streaking down her eyes. Vyndakian soon found his arms filled again with a woman, but not Trayste. He looked at his fiancée with a little worry before looking back at Kaoru.

"Kaoru," spoke the Older Elf, "What's wrong?" She sobbed into her father's shoulder for a long time.

"It's Jarn'dor," she managed to choke out, "He's dead…"

* * *

><p>Golion laughed, sitting on his throne. Kisha'rowyn had retired to her chambers shortly after arriving at Utgarde Keep, only taking the time to meet with their allies. The Dragon knew she was probably plotting Vyndakian's destruction. And he was fine with that. After all, it was the only reason that he had 'recruited' her.<p>

What entertained him now, was one of the Warlocks that worked with his eggs. The entire group of spellcasters had come to watch their leader babble on.

"You see milord," managed the Warlock, "The eggs are too unstable to age once they hatch. We'd need to wait for them to hatch naturally." Golion tapped his talons across the arm of his throne in irritation.

"And how long would that take," asked the Dragon, more than a little impatient to begin his plans. The Warlock quavered under his Lord's gaze, his knees knocking.

"Approximately one hundred years," he managed to get out before a scream was torn from his throat, as his body was compressed by Golion's magic, the screaming form folding in on itself.

Obsidion pushed himself off of his throne, walking down to the Warlocks. He pointed at one, and the rest of the group stepped back, singling him out.

"You are the leader now," he ordered, "Make sure my eggs hatch in the next week." The Warlocks immediately scattered from the room after those words, before they could incur their master's wrath.

A small group brought a canister into the chamber, a set of flowing, plain robes set on the top. Across the funeral canister, the words Liar, Deciever, Killer, and Traitor were scribbled in Zandali

"Good," hissed the Dragon, "You found it." One of the Urn bearers stepped forward, nodding.

"It was not easy," he replied, "The Bloodraptor hid it well. We nearly lost it getting it off the mountain." Golion laughed. Of course, the Clan would hide their last leader, in hope that no one would find him.

"Seal the room," he ordered, as he pulled out his spell book, flipping through the pages. Before he knew it, there was no light, save for the paint on the burial urn. With a snap of his talons, the letters in his spellbook began to glow.

Like most of his relics, the spellbook was also stolen, once having been in the position of the Guardian, Medivh. But after a raid on Karazhan, he had acquired a few powerful tools, just like his raid on the Black Temple, where he had acquired the lost Warglaives of Azzinoth.

Golion began to chant, and the room became silent. Time seemed to stand still, as words in a strange tounge began to issue forth from the Dragon's mouth. The Urn shook and rattled on the floor below him, as the complex spell began to work.

The lid of the Urn shattered, as the robe floated above it, bleached white bones emerging from the clay pot. They began to assemble themselves inside the robe, taking the form of a Troll.

The bones rattled as the skeletal figure fell to the floor, kneeling. Golion laughed as his spell was completed, and the Troll rose.

"Welcome back to life, Zi'bal."


End file.
